


Checking In

by dracoqueen22



Series: The Prime's Consorts [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:07:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29271489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: It’s the call Wheeljack’s been waiting for, but he still doesn’t expect to hear the good news from Ratchet’s own lips.
Series: The Prime's Consorts [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2044354
Comments: 89
Kudos: 180





	1. Chapter 1

Wrist-deep in one of his many projects, Wheeljack often ignores his communication console when it beeps at him or flashes at him or makes any amount of distracting attempts to get his attention. But when the special tone Wheeljack programmed specifically for Ratchet pings at his audials, Wheeljack scrambles to answer it, sending a container of tools crashing to the floor as he lunges for the acceptance key.

He winces as the clatter of scattered tools echoes around his laboratory, but it’s a distant worry because the moment his fingers brush the key, Ratchet’s face fills the screen. Relief crashes over Wheeljack even harder than the tumbled tool chest.

Especially when Ratchet gives him that wry grin. “Catch you at a bad time?”

“Shut up,” Wheeljack says, his indicators flashing. He claws at the desk, dragging his wheeled chair around the tool detritus to get his face better in the screen. “I’ve been worried sick about you.”

Ratchet arches an orbital ridge. “Think I can’t take care of myself?”

“I think that having to watch you get on a shuttle meant for the Prime’s estate took decades off my spark-life,” Wheeljack replies tartly. Of course, Ratchet would be flippant about this. Of course. “How’re you? And be honest.”

“When am I not?” Ratchet snorts, but his grin shifts into something more serious. “I’m actually… okay. Better than either of us could’ve hoped.”

He might even be telling the truth, Wheeljack thinks.

Ratchet looks… good. Rested and polished, and his smile feels genuine. From what Wheeljack can see in the background, he’s in a berthroom, probably not the Prime’s but one of his own. Wheeljack doubts the Prime would make all of his Consorts stay in the same room with him, no matter how vile and lecherous they are. Ten is a lot to keep in that kind of space.

Also, Ratchet doesn’t have a kinky collar around his neck, or manacles on his wrists, or any marks on his armor. Of course, this Prime could be the sort who likes to make sure his Consorts are pretty and polished to hide the scars.

Wheeljack squints at his best friend. “Do I need to come to Iacon and blow up the Prime? Because I’ll do it, treason bedamned.”

Ratchet, of all things, laughs. And it’s a genuine laugh, not one of Ratchet’s patented “I’m not okay but Wheeljack makes things a little better” laughs.

“Please don’t,” he says. “I actually like this Prime.”

Wheeljack sits back in his chair, sending it rolling into a heavy wrench. “Wait. Really?”

“Really,” Ratchet says. He leans to the side, plants his chin on his fist. “He might actually be one of the good ones, Jack. So far, that’s what I’ve seen anyway.” His free hand touches his chassis. “I saw a lot of his truth.”

“It’s not impossible to lie through a spark merge,” Wheeljack points out. “You know that.”

They don’t mention the name Pharma. They don’t have to.

“I do, and only time will tell if this Prime is a good liar, but… I don’t think he is,” Ratchet says, and there’s an almost awestruck tone to his voice that really throws Wheeljack for a loop.

Ratchet is grumpy and pessimistic and jaded. He’s not a mech full of awe or hope. What kind of mech is Optimus Prime to inspire this kind of change in him?

And is it genuine?

Ratchet’s one of the smartest, most well-defended mechs Wheeljack knows, but there are plenty of mneumosurgery specialists running around on Cybertron. Past leadership has not hesitated to apply their specific talents.

“Why not?” Wheeljack asks.

Ratchet settles into his chair. “It’s the way he talks to us. He’s open-minded without it being condescending. Everything about him reads as genuine.” He makes a vague gesture. “He actually asked me what it would take for me to be comfortable, and not only did he listen, he took my words to spark.”

It sounds too good to be true. A Prime genuinely taking interest in the well-being of his Consorts? Treating them as more than berth-mates or well-bred buymechs? Has Wheeljack stepped into an alternate dimension?

“He’s made it pretty damn clear he hates the current Consort process, too,” Ratchet continues, because apparently there are more good things to say. Wheeljack has to admit, that’s a hefty amount of evidence leaning toward Optimus Prime being a halfway decent mech. “He wants to change Cybertron, Wheeljack. He’s asked us to help.”

“And you believe him?”

“He asked me to be his personal medic so yeah, I think I do,” Ratchet says, his optics dimming with serious contemplation. “There’s something different about this one, Jack. I’m sure of it.” He pauses and gives Wheeljack a wry look. “He’s not the first Prime I’ve met, remember?”

Wheeljack rolls his optics. “I remember.” Ratchet’s old enough to have met at least two other Primes before Optimus, and he loves to remind Wheeljack how much older he is at every opportunity.

It took forever for Ratchet to stop calling him “bratling.” He still does it now and again to tweak Wheeljack’s gears.

“If he does even half the things he says he’s going to do, then we can all consider ourselves lucky,” Ratchet says, and there’s an odd earnest tone to his voice. “I’ve agreed to support him, or at the very least, not stand in his way.”

Wheeljack has to meet this Prime, if he’s turned surly Ratchet into a mech daring to have an inch of hope these days.

He pulls up a datapad out of range of the camera and starts looking up flights from Nova Cronum to Iacon proper. If the Prime won’t let him see Ratchet, well, that’s just proof he’s not all shiny brackets like he claims to be. A good Prime wouldn’t prevent best friends from visiting each other, now would he?

“Ratchet, start from the beginning,” Wheeljack says, using his best no-nonsense voice. The one he uses on his apprentices to get them to stand up and obey and yes, absolutely, definitely employ the safety precautions that are there for a reason, you morons.

Yes, I’m looking at you, Brainstorm.

“Tell me everything,” Wheeljack continues as he divides his attention between his best friend and the available flights. He’s got plenty of creds saved up for an impromptu vacation and besides, Perceptor’s been begging for him to check out the lab in Iacon anyway.

Two Scraplets, one shot and all that.

“Especially about the other consorts,” Wheeljack adds. He knows who they are thanks to the public announcement that went up, but he doesn’t know them, and if any of them are mistreating Ratchet, well, Wheeljack has a few accidentally explosive gifts to give. “Give me the gossip everyone else isn’t going to get.”

Ratchet laughs and gives him such a fond look, Wheeljack preens. “Alright you nosey slagger. Hope you don’t have anywhere to be today.”

Wheeljack idly kicks a scattered tool away from his chair. “My time is all yours.”

He books the first flight out.

***


	2. Checking Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wheeljack comes to visit, and as delighted as Ratchet is, he realizes much too late that it might have been a bad idea.

Ratchet is not a patient mech.  
  
Oh, sure, when it comes to surgeries, he is as calm and methodical as any good medic ought to be, but outside of the operating room, Ratchet doesn’t have time to be patient. He hates waiting.  
  
He especially hates waiting on other mechs. Like Wheeljack, who has made an art out of arriving late, often with style, cloaked in some noxious scientific odor and field flashing such enthusiasm and apology Ratchet immediately forgets how angry he was.  
  
To be fair, Wheeljack’s tardiness this time around is not his fault. He can no more hurry the expansive security protocols between him and Ratchet than Ratchet can convince Cybertron to rotate a little faster.  
  
Ratchet twists and looks up toward the doors where two guards wait with far more patience than Ratchet has. They’re eying the horizon like an assassin is going to come sprinting at Ratchet any second now.  
  
He’d tried to argue against them, but Chromia was insistent. Ratchet has learned that when it comes to the safety of the Consorts, no one overrules Chromia. Not Optimus. Not even Ironhide, who has learned to suffer the indignity of bodyguards always hovering somewhere in his periphery.  
  
Honestly, Ratchet thinks he’s the one suffering the most, because he’s forced to endure Ironhide’s moaning and groaning. Ironhide won’t dare cross Chromia, but that doesn’t mean he’s above whining to Ratchet about it.  
  
Ratchet shifts his weight, scans the roadway, and grins when the massive transport finally rolls into view, the symbol of the Primes painted garishly along the side. Such a thing might have suited the past Primes, but it does not suit Optimus. It screams opulence where Optimus has a more humble manner about him.  
  
Ratchet steps down the front ramp as the transport comes to a halt with nary a squeak of brakes. It lurches in place as the door on the side folds down into a small set of steps, sized for the average mech. He waits, shifting from foot to foot, until a familiar frame appears in the doorway and descends.  
  
Wheeljack, bless his spark, looks like he slept through his alarm after passing out at his workbench again. His armor is scuffed and scorched in a few places, one winglet is the tiniest bit askew, and Ratchet swears he can hear that old rattle in his best friend’s vents. How many more times is he going to have to flush those?  
  
“About time you got here,” Ratchet grumps, and Wheeljack’s gaze swivels his direction, optics brightening and indicators flashing a merry blue.  
  
“Ratchet!”  
  
Wheeljack launches himself toward Ratchet, giving Ratchet only a second to brace himself before he’s being swept into a crushing embrace. A comfortingly familiar scent surrounds him, that of chemicals and weldfire and those obnoxiously sweet gummies Wheeljack consumes by the pound. Wheeljack’s engine revs a delighted cadence, vibrating against Ratchet’s armor, and his laugh chases away lingering threads of worry.  
  
Ratchet melts into the embrace. He should have known not even a visit to the Prime’s Residence would change Wheeljack’s sense of propriety.  
  
“It’s good to see you too, Jack,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around Wheeljack and squeezing tight enough to hear his armor creak and Wheeljack let out a little squeak. “Especially in one piece.”  
  
“Hey, I’m the one who was worried about that!” Wheeljack laughs and presses their foreheads together. “I was safe and sound in my lab--”  
  
“Safe and sound?” Ratchet echoes with a raised orbital ridge. “I don’t think either of those terms have ever applied to you.”  
  
Wheeljack chuffs a vent and pulls back, hands on Ratchet’s shoulders. “I’ll have you know I adhere to every safety precaution established by the scientific community,” he declares before he pauses to squint at Ratchet.  
  
The wash of a medical-grade diagnosis scan hits Ratchet in that moment, making his sensors tingle. “Jack, really?”  
  
“Oh, you knew this was coming.” Wheeljack steps back to arms length and scans Ratchet visibly as well, slowly circling him with a critical optic. “No dents, no scrapes, no malicious attachments…”  
  
Ratchet pinches the bridge of his nose and vents slowly. There’s no point in trying to dissuade Wheeljack. Best to let him finish and allay his concerns.  
  
“Since when do you have access to medical scanning?” he asks instead.  
  
“That’s a silly question. Who do you think helped program the newest update?” Wheeljack’s at his back now, fingers gentle on the nape of Ratchet’s neck. There’s a flash of ultraviolet light before Wheeljack says, “No needle marks.”  
  
“Did you really think they were going to reprogram me?”  
  
“Can’t be too careful.” Wheeljack circles back around to face Ratchet, still focused and intent. “As far as I can tell, you’re in good condition, and while grouchy, you’re mentally stable, too.” He beams, indicators flickering blue again. “Then again, you’re always grouchy, so that’s a good sign.”  
  
Ratchet rolls his optics. “If I showed you my spark, would you feel better?”  
  
Wheeljack clutches his chassis in mock horror. ”Ratchet, you’re shameless,” he mock-gasps before he pulls Ratchet into another hug, this one far gentler. “I just had to check.”  
  
“I know.” Ratchet tweaks the base of one of Wheeljack’s winglets to make him squirm. “Thanks.”  
  
“Anytime.” Wheeljack releases him and plants his hands on his hips, looking past Ratchet and tilting his head back to take in the massive construction that is the Prime Residence. “Do I get the tour now?”  
  
Ratchet shakes his head. “You get the tour after you meet Optimus.” There’s no sense in putting it off. Might as well get the potential disaster done and mitigated.  
  
Wheeljack rubs his hands together, field radiating glee. “Good. I’ve been looking forward to this.”  
  
“I’m sure you have,” Ratchet says dryly. He puts his hand on Wheeljack’s shoulder, leaning in toward his audial. “Do me a favor. Try not to offend anyone?”  
  
“Me? Offend?” Wheeljack gives him an innocent look Ratchet does not believe for a moment. “I would never.” He glances up at the guards. “But I don’t think I can make any promises. I don’t like the way those two are looking at me.”  
  
Ratchet sighs.  
  
“It’s my responsibility as your best friend!” Wheeljack insists, and hooks his arm through Ratchet’s, tugging him toward the low-grade ramp. “If I don’t embarrass you, who will?”  
  
Ratchet lets himself be tugged. There’s really no reining in Wheeljack when he’s got that determined pulse to his field. “I’d rather you impress. Show everyone the brilliant mind I know and love.”  
  
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” Wheeljack beams at him, though it slides into a squint as they pass the soldiers on either side of the door. “Where is Optimus Prime anyway?”  
  
Neither of the two soldiers seem particularly perturbed by Wheeljack’s suspicion. Given Chromia’s exacting standards, Ratchet isn’t surprised that they are the epitome of professionalism.  
  
“Give me a sec, and I’ll find out.”  
  
Ratchet pings Optimus as the doors shut behind them, the guards remaining on the other side, Optimus replies with his location -- the on-site laboratory with Starscream. Good. Wheeljack will enjoy seeing the premises and maybe, just maybe, having another witness will temper Wheeljack’s attitude.  
  
“Good news,” Ratchet says as Wheeljack immediately cranes his neck to take in the high-vaulted ceilings and the mosaic mural set into the walls surrounding them. “Not only do you get to meet Optimus, but you get to see the lab, too.”  
  
Wheeljack’s field spikes with surprise. “There’s a lab?”  
  
“Fully-stocked,” Ratchet says with a grin. “Starscream and Skyfire spend a lot of their time there, and Optimus often hides there, too.”  
  
“Hides,” Wheeljack echoes, one orbital ridge arching with doubt. “And why would he do that?”  
  
Ratchet gives his oldest friend a pointed look. “How many times have you hidden from the licensing committee?”  
  
“Fair enough. I rescind the question.”  
  
Ratchet drags Wheeljack to the nearest lift, and it rises to the third level, depositing them just outside the double-doors of the laboratory. Usually, said doors are closed with obnoxious warning signs plastered over them, but today they are open and inviting.  
  
In they go, Ratchet giving little tugs to Wheeljack’s arm whenever his best friend catches some fancy piece of equipment and gives a little moan of want. “You can play later,” Ratchet grouses as he hauls Wheeljack away from some complicated piece of machinery. “If you can convince Starscream to let you touch. He can be prickly.”  
  
“Starscream, hm?” Wheeljack lets himself be dragged, though his gaze is longing, and taps his blastmask. “I didn’t realize he was a scientist.”  
  
Ratchet shakes his head. “You need to pay more attention to politics, Jack. His projects are part of what got him exiled here.” They round the corner to the central workspace, brightly lit and occupied by Starscream, Optimus, and a holo-projector displaying Starscream’s newest project.  
  
Optimus notices them first and smiles, stepping around the holoimage to extend his greetings. “Hello, you must be Wheeljack,” he says with an offered hand. “I have heard much about you. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”  
  
Wheeljack slips free of Ratchet’s arm and boldly approaches Optimus, taking his hand and giving it a vigorous shake. “Heard a lot about you, too, Prime,” he says. “It’s all good things, and I’m really hoping it stays that way.”  
  
Ratchet winces. Not even a second’s hesitation from Wheeljack. He should have known.  
  
Optimus’ smile doesn’t falter while the handshake lingers. “I assure you, it is fully my intention to treat Ratchet with all the respect, dignity, and affection he deserves.”  
  
“That’s a good start.” Wheeljack leans in, never mind that Optimus is a head and a half taller than him, and looks up at Optimus. “I’d hate for you to have a terrible accident. Did Ratchet happen to mention I often work with experimental weaponry?”  
  
Ratchet sighs and hides behind his palm while Starscream, he notices, looks on with nothing short of admiration and glee. “Wheeljack, honestly. Could you not?”  
  
Optimus, however, raises his free hand, and gives Ratchet a reassuring look. “It’s quite alright, Ratchet,” he says. “You are lucky to have a friend willing to go to such lengths to protect and defend you.”  
  
“Mech, you have no idea the lengths I’ll go,” Wheeljack says, and while his tone is cheerful and pleasant, there’s an undercurrent Ratchet knows all too well.  
  
Wheeljack is generally a kind, amicable mech eager to make new friends. But he is fiercely loyal, consequences bedamned, and Ratchet wishes he could be surprised Wheeljack is brave enough to threaten the _Prime_.  
  
He’s not.  
  
“I have an inkling, I believe,” Optimus says. He rests his other hand over their joined ones, giving them a gentle pat. “I promise I will do my very best to never intentionally hurt Ratchet.”  
  
Wheeljack’s indicators flare a sunny yellow. “Then you and I won’t have a problem.”  
  
“None at all.” Optimus tilts his head, orbital ridges lifting. “Might I have my hand back now?”  
  
Starscream snorts and says, “Looks like you’ll have to be careful with this one, Optimus.” His field shimmers with amusement, winglets twitching up and down.  
  
“Oh, sure. I don’t need it.” Wheeljack flutters his optic in a wink and releases Optimus’ hand, only to immediately turn toward Starscream. “I’m guessing you’re Starscream, right? And this is…” He trails off, tilting his head to examine the holo-image. “A converter of some kind?”  
  
“Yes.” Starscream folds his arms. “It is one of many projects I have been developing.”  
  
Wheeljack circles the three-dimensional image. “Impressive. You’ve even accounted for the waste.” He lifts his hands, about to touch the hologram, only to pause. “Oh, what am I thinking? I should know better than to touch another scientist’s work.” He wiggles his fingers. “May I?”  
  
Starscream glances at Ratchet who shrugs. Anything to distract Wheeljack from threatening Optimus again. Honestly, he has no _shame_.  
  
“You can examine it, but don’t change anything.” Starscream moves closer, hands resting near the control console. “I’ve almost perfected the design, and I don’t need some stranger fragging it up. Or worse, stealing it.”  
  
Wheeljack presses a hand to his chassis. “I would never adjust it without your permission or take another mech’s intellectual property,” he says, and taps his spark seam in mimicry of a vow. “I’m Wheeljack, by the way. So now we’re not strangers anymore.”  
  
Starscream’s mouth quirks in that sarcastic grin he favors so often. “I know who you are. And your reputation. Doesn’t mean I’m going to outright trust you.”  
  
“That’s fair,” Wheeljack concedes with a shallow dip of his head. “But I promise I only explode the things I intend to explode. It’s not my fault half my contracts come from the Defense Force.”  
  
“You build weapons?”  
  
“I have. It’s not my passion though,” Wheeljack says, and he looks back at the holoimage. “Stuff like this is the real science. Have you built a prototype yet?”  
  
Ratchet’s peripheral vision pings as Optimus sidles up next to him, idly rubbing his thumb into the palm of the hand Wheeljack had gripped. A perfunctory scan proves Wheeljack hadn’t damaged him, though there is some light bruising to the cable beneath the delicate dermal plates.  
  
“His grip is unexpectedly firm,” Optimus says.  
  
Ratchet sighs. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“There is no need for an apology.” Optimus’ field nudges his, warm and forgiving. “I am aware of the reputation of the Primes, and given the behavior of those before me, I cannot fault your friend his concern.”  
  
“It even separates the fluid from the metal!” Wheeljack interjects in the background, his excitement spiking through the room.  
  
Starscream gives him a smug smile. “Of course. You can’t expect the average mecha to know how to sort the scraps. We have to make it as user-friendly as possible.”  
  
“That’s brilliant!”  
  
“I still feel like I should apologize,” Ratchet says, shifting his attention back to Optimus. “Thanks for taking him in stride.”  
  
Optimus’ smile is a treasured thing, genuine as it is, and far from the cool civility he’d offered at their first meeting. “He is important to you,” he says, as if that’s reason enough.  
  
He rests a hand on Ratchet’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ll excuse myself. I suspect I no longer exist to either of them right now.”  
  
Ratchet barks a laugh. “Nope. Wheeljack’s forgotten me, too. He gets this way when he discovers a new toy.”  
  
And judging by the shared looks of scientific appreciation, both Starscream and Wheeljack have found something to fascinate them. Ratchet should have known introducing the two scientists would lead to this.  
  
Optimus chuckles. “Then I shall seek out Skyfire in the library and leave you to it.”  
  
“Enjoy your books,” Ratchet calls to his departing frame, and the parting flicker of affection in Optimus’ field.  
  
“What about general energy conversion? Do you have any thoughts on that?” Wheeljack asks as his fingers fly around the holoimage, manipulating the digital display to pull apart the individual components and examine them.  
  
Starscream arches an orbital ridge. “I have over two dozen projects currently in progress.”  
  
“Is that a yes?” Wheeljack asks.  
  
“It’s a yes.” Starscream saunters to a nearby console and presses a few buttons on it, causing the image to fizzle out and be immediately replaced with a different one. Even to Ratchet’s untrained optic, his creation appears far less advanced than the one previous. “I intend to use this to show those fools in the Academy they should not have dismissed me so readily.”  
  
Wheeljack’s fans stall before picking up again, spinning faster than before and adding that raucous clatter Ratchet hates so much. “This is ingenious, Starscream.” He circles the image, leaning in to peer at specific sections.  
  
Oh, Primus.  
  
Ratchet knows that tone. There’s delight in his best friend’s optics and fascination in Wheeljack’s field.  
  
And sure enough, Wheeljack straightens, looks over at Starscream and says, “It’s a good thing I plan to rent a lab here in Iacon. I would love to collaborate with you.”  
  
Wait.  
  
What?  
  
“I thought you lived in Nova Cronum,” says Starscream, head tilted.  
  
“Did. Ratch is here though, so I’m here, too.” Wheeljack throws a thumb over his shoulder in Ratchet’s general direction, proving he hasn’t _completely_ forgotten about Ratchet. Just mostly. “I hear Iacon is where all the smart folks are anyway.”  
  
Starscream smirks, wings arching high and proud. “I would argue otherwise save that I’ve recently taken up residence here.”  
  
“I rest my case,” Wheeljack says.  
  
Starscream hums and steps up to his invention, fingers dancing across the digital image. “Well as long as you’re around, I don’t see any harm in exchanging a few ideas.”  
  
“You’re _moving_ here? I thought you were just visiting!” Ratchet splutters.  
  
Wheeljack’s optics gleam in a manner that suggests both amusement and guile. “How else am I gonna keep an optic on you, Ratch? You’d get into the worst trouble without me.”  
  
“I’m the one who gets into trouble?” Ratchet echoes, and no, he does not shriek. Not even a little.  
  
Starscream laughs. “Oh, you are going to be so much fun.” He flicks a portion of his schematic Wheeljack’s direction. “Take a look at this section. What do you think? Duryllium or transteel?”  
  
“Neither. You’re better off with anchorite for this part.” Wheeljack taps the image, making it wiggle before it solidifies. “It’ll absorb the heat better.”  
  
“I don’t want to absorb the heat. I want to use it,” Starscream says.  
  
“Isn’t anyone going to ask whether or not I think it’s a good idea for you to be here?” Ratchet demands, exasperated.  
  
“Nope,” Wheeljack and Starscream manage to say at the same time, in the same tone, and when they share a glance, Ratchet sees the potential for chaos unfolding in front of him.  
  
Frag.  
  
What in the Pit has he gotten himself into?  
  


***


End file.
